


Challenge Taken Metaphorically

by elwinglyre



Series: Challenge Taken... [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Challenge Taken..., Fluff, Hot Sex, M/M, The Rules, Url challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 15:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10516908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Second in series after Challenge Taken Literally (which was written for prompt using Tumblr url pages. Mine is http://sherlockchallenge.tumblr.com/rules).Idea from this second-in-a-series piece comes from AO3's sln055 in a comment made on the first piece. Thanks. I've posted the comment at the end of "Challenge Taken Literally" since I didn't want spoilers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed the first installment or need a refresher, here are "the rules":
> 
> John’s Rule for Sherlock  
> 1\. John and Sherlock share household chores  
> 2\. Sherlock will have no more experiments with Rosie around.  
> 3\. Sherlock will not disparage John in front of Rosie  
> 4\. Sherlock will move objects that could be dangerous out of Rosie’s reach.  
> 5\. Sherlock will be nice to royalty and know their names.  
> 6\. Sherlock must check the temperature, set the timer when cooking anything.  
> 7\. Sherlock must always kiss John goodnight.
> 
> Sherlock’s Rule for John  
> 1\. John makes the tea and does the shopping  
> 2\. Sherlock takes Rosie on walks two times per week. Preferably with John.  
> 3\. Whenever not on a case, John must let Sherlock tuck Rosie in at night and read her a bedtime story.  
> 4\. After John takes out his gun, he must fire it within 24 hours.  
> 5\. John must never go to bed mad at Sherlock.  
> 6\. John must rub Sherlock’s head or feet once a week.  
> 7\. John must always live with Sherlock.
> 
> The Universal Rule: John and Sherlock must always sleep in the same bed.

_Early evening, Friday at 221B Baker Street_

“It was a rule!” Sherlock said, pouting.

“You’re beginning to really piss me off,” John said, throwing his leather jacket over the chair. “You can be so juvenile sometimes. Besides, the rule was that I would shoot my gun within 24 hours after getting it out. I could still do that.”

“Yes, however, you got it out, then shot it, but I didn’t get to watch!” Sherlock said, flopping onto the couch, legs splayed out in front of him. He rolled his head back and closed his eyes, frowning.

“It’s all I heard on the cab ride home! We still have another 18 hours left. I could shoot the wall right now if that would make you shut it,” he said, taking the Sig Sauer out of his waist band.

“It’s not the same, and you know it! Mycroft got to watch! That’s hardly fair,” Sherlock moaned.

John didn’t need this. He was bone tired--for thirty-six hours his nerves were focused to the point of a knife as they hunted a crazed assassin through Soho. Hardly a three on Sherlock’s scale, but the end of the chase had been nine for John. What compounded Sherlock’s dissatisfaction was the fact that the heart-pounding resolution _hadn’t_ included Sherlock, but Mycroft.

Sherlock followed John as he locked away his pistol back in the gun safe on the top shelf of the bedroom closet. He continued to trail behind John into the living room and stopped in the middle of the floor as as John flung himself down into his chair.

Sherlock clenched his fists at his side, Belstaff still on and hair ruffled from the chase earlier. He closed his eyes and let out a long, stuttering sigh.

“First I was _forced_ to take this insufferably boring case,” Sherlock began theatrically, “then had to _listen_ to my brother’s pompous sermonizing for days on end about the _importance_ government service. And in the end, I didn’t get to witness the only stimulating part of the entire fiasco.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and opened his eyes, then fixed them on John. “You shot the Luger out of an assassin's hand from over 75 yards _from a roof_ ,” Sherlock said, in an awe-struck half whisper. “It was a James Bond moment, John, and _the only_ exceptional second of this entire insufferable week. _And I missed it_.”

“There! I knew you secretly loved 007,” John joked. Sherlock really needed to lighten up a bit.

Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Yes, I do _so_ _enjoy_ predictable plots and gratuitous violence.” He cleared his throat, changing his tone to sincere. “What you did was neither predictable nor gratuitous. Lestrade saw it too. He said it was the single most amazing shot he’s ever seen.” 

“What was I supposed to do? His gun was trained on your brother’s head!” John was really, really sick of this. “The bloody killer was two feet from Mycroft! What did you want me to do? Stop and yell down, ‘ _Hey, would you please wait one moment! My wanker of a partner isn’t here yet, and he so hates to miss me shoot off my gun!’_ To a trained assassin?! You know what? sometimes people can’t stop and wait! _For_ . _You_.”

“You could have let him shoot Mycroft,” Sherlock said, half serious. “Or better, you could have shot Mycroft.”

“Sherlock!” John said, crossing his arms. “That’s not funny. I agree that he can be a huge arsehole, but he’s still your brother. Despite everything, you _do_ love him. I don’t know why you say things like that sometimes. And _never_ say something like that in front of Rosie.”

Sherlock jumped up in a huff. “I would never say such a thing with her there.”

“Yes, well, that’s good at least--although I don’t like hearing you say things like that either.”

“Since when do you care so much about Mycroft?”

 

“Since Rosie told me: _‘I whove Unkie My Cough to bits’_ \--that’s when!”

Sherlock tossed John a resigned look and walked toward the door saying, “I’m going to fetch Rosie from Mrs. Hudson. Tonight’s story night. At least _that_ will this keep this day from being a total loss.”

John smiled as he watched Sherlock go downstairs, then got up to start water for the tea--after all, it was one of those rules that Sherlock never failed to remind John about. John rubbed his shoulder and back. With all that running, he’d cramped up a bit when he was sitting down. He stretched and yawned, thinking about how he loved standing in the doorway outside Rosie’s room, listening to Sherlock read to her. Sherlock’s animated storytelling became as much of a high point for John as it was for his daughter. They had just finished _Winnie the Pooh_ before this last case and had begun _The House on Pooh Corner_. Rosie had become obsessed with Pooh. John had to chuckle about that--in some ways her single-mindedness was so much like Sherlock’s.

The tea was almost ready when door scraped opened, but instead of Sherlock and Rosie bouncing through, it was Mycroft.

“Just in time, I see,” Mycroft said, making himself at home as he took off his coat and set his umbrella aside.

“Hello, Mycroft,” John said, motioning for him to take a seat at the table, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“Ah, well, I thought I should come over. I didn’t get a chance to speak to you earlier, and I wanted to thank you.”

John felt himself blushing a bit. The unaccustomed sincerity in Mycroft’s voice surprised John. It wasn’t like Mycroft to thank someone--at least not without an ulterior motive.

Sherlock’s brother took a seat at the kitchen table as John prepared three cups of tea. He walked over and placed a cup in front of Mycroft.

“Earl Grey,” Mycroft said, taking a sip, “very nice.”

John retrieved his own tea along with Sherlock’s cup and came back to the table, sitting next in his usual chair next to Mycroft.

“I also wanted to talk to you about something I’d like to set up for Rosie,” Mycroft said. “A trust fund of sorts. Mother and father insisted, and I agree that she should have a nest egg set aside.”

“That’s very kind, but Mary left us very comfortable. Of course you know that.”

“University is expensive, and one can _never_ have too much money.”

“You put too much importance on money.”

“Yes, well, you’ve said something to that effect to me before.” Mycroft sipped his tea and studied John over the edge his cup, raising an eyebrow. “You are a most amazing man, John Watson. My brother is _very_ lucky.”

John cleared his throat and felt his cheeks heat up. “Thank you, I think.”

“Yes, most amazing man. I do owe you my life, it seems.” Mycroft patted John’s knee making his ears turn bright red. “Some tropes deem that those indebted should pledge his or her loyalty to the other. What do you think? I owe you my life. How do I repay that debt?”

John grew uncomfortable since Mycroft’s hand hadn’t left his knee--that is until the door flew open, and Sherlock stood holding Rosie on his hip, eyes boring into Mycroft--then his hand drew away as if he’d touched hot coals.

“Unkie My Cough!” Rosie shouted, arms flinging wide.

“I trust you were outside the door for approximately thirty-five seconds,” Mycroft said, smiling at Rosie.

“Approximately.”

“However did you ever keep Rosie quiet for that long?” Mycroft asked.

“Biscuits,” Sherlock said.

“Yes. I see the crumbs on your coat,” Mycroft said after standing up and picking up his umbrella and coat by the door. “Thank you, John, the tea was lovely. I trust you’ll accept my gratitude and give my offer serious consideration.”

Mycroft stepped around his brother and Rosie.

“Bye, bye, Unkie My Cough!” she said as she stretched out her arms again toward him. Mycroft took one of her tiny hands in his, bowed on one knee, then kissed her hand like he was some gallant knight, eliciting a fit of giggles from Rosie.

“Bye, bye, my sweet,” Mycroft said, standing up, brushing crumbs from Sherlock’s Belstaff, then closing the door behind him.

“What exactly was that about?” Sherlock demanded as the door shut.

“I think he’s a bit thankful that I saved his life.”

“Thankful? More like unhinged! He was feeling you up!” Sherlock said. “He touched _me_ ! And what was that chivalrous _shite_ he pulled with Rosie!”

“He was just thanking me. And don’t swear in front of Rosie,” John said.

“Yes, Papalock,” she said, placing her finger on his lips, “don’t swear.”

Sherlock frowned at John. “Look what you’ve started,” he mumbled as Rosie stuck her finger into his mouth. Sherlock held it there between his teeth as she giggled.

“Don’t bite her!” John ordered.

“Yes, don’t bite Rosie!” she laughed, kicking Sherlock’s side. Sherlock released her finger with a pop, followed by more giggles.

“I was not biting, merely restraining with my teeth.”

“Yeah, well, I know _all_ about that,” John said, raising his eyebrow.

“Now who’s being inappropriate?” Sherlock said, setting Rosie down on her feet and allowing her to take off to parts unknown. “And by the way, practicing the art of distraction is _my_ modus operandi--”

“She’s already had her bath?” John asked. “And ready for bed?”

“Bed! No, no, no! No _bed_!” Rosie said in a fit and hid under the coffee table.

“John! You said _one of the three letter words_ !” Sherlock shook his head. “Rosie, I’m reading you Pooh, but it has to be in-- _that place_ . Come out from under the table.” Sherlock turned back to John as Rosie climbed out and onward to investigate. “And yes, Mrs. Hudson gave her a bath.” Sherlock stopped and narrowed his eyes. “You’re doing it again, John. Sometimes you _are_ very clever. But just so you understand--your machinations won’t work--we aren’t done. After her story, I want to know exactly what you and my brother were up to--what was this ‘offer’ he was giving you.”

It was John’s turn to narrow his eyes.

“I better get Rosie and deflect any damage left in her wake,” Sherlock said. “Rosie! it’s time for Christopher Robin!”

Despite the overdose of sweetness in the apartment, John felt bitter. His tea was turning cold and frankly so was he. Cold and bitter, bitter and cold. John didn’t much like what Sherlock was insinuating. He didn’t even go to Rosie’s room to listen to Sherlock telling Rosie about the “silly old bear” or honey or bees or ‘“oh, bother!” Instead, he went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of scotch, tossed it back, then decided--what the hell--might as well take the whole bottle with him to the living room and save time walking back and forth from the kitchen. He sat in his chair and waited for Sherlock, bottle in hand.

A half an hour later, Sherlock descended the stairs. He stopped at the bottom and his eyes drilled into John. “I hope you’re not drinking to forget,” he said.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock walked around and sat across from John on the couch.

“I deduce that it was seeing you shoot the assassin that did it,” Sherlock explained. “We _are_ related--it stands to reason we would be attracted to the same traits, same behaviors.”

“You seem to think that Mycroft was making a pass at me.”

“Oh, but he was!” Sherlock said.

“And you seem to think that I liked it,” John snapped back.

John wasn’t too sure about Mycroft’s intentions. It was a bit off--and if anyone else had placed a hand on his knee like that and squeezed it, he’d certainly think it _was_ a pass. It was the rest of what Sherlock thought that bothered John.

Sherlock’s silence supported John’s fears. He took a big swig of Scotch.

“Not sharing?” Sherlock said, nodding to the bottle. “I don’t like to share much either…”

“ _Fuck you_. You don’t get to say that to me.”

“Then I’ll ask: Just what _was_ Mycroft’s offer?”

John veins in his forehead throbbed. His face turned red. He wanted to punch something.

Sherlock stood and paced the living room, stopping at the skull for reassurance before turning to face his best friend. “John, I...I should not have said that.”

“Oh. Is that so?”

“No, and I didn’t mean to imply that I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t think you were implying it at all. You damn well know that you said it! And you said it in that fucking voice that you use--that, that _Sherlock-knows-you’re-fucking-lying_ voice. I can’t believe this, you giant arse! You actually _believe_ I’d be tempted?”

“Power has a certain attraction.”

“I was right! Is that what you _really_ think of me? Damn it, Sherlock! I don’t want to believe it. More like it’s your insecurities rearing their ugly heads. Power. Money. You know those aren’t important to me. And they aren’t important to you either. I don’t know why you’d say it other than you’ve heard your brother say it so much. And he’s definitely not...for me,” John said, making Sherlock cringe.

Sherlock hesitated before asking, “Are you coming to bed?”

“I don’t think so,” John bit out.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“Of course I am, you wanker. You practically accused me of...I can’t even say it…”

“Don’t say it. I might throw up.”

John listened as Sherlock got ready for bed. For a man who had brushing his teeth timed to the second, he was drawing it out tonight, waiting for John. The problem was, it was one of the rules not to go to bed angry. John couldn’t go to bed angry, and he was still angry. And a bit pissed. He finally heard Sherlock pad off to bed. Of course he wouldn’t sleep. It wouldn’t be long and Sherlock would be standing in front of him--his hair disheveled and feet bare and eyes pleading because that was another rule. And Sherlock was _all_ about “the rules.” He eyed his scotch--half gone--and sipped some more, then set the bottle on the table next to his chair. He cocooned himself in one the colorful quilts Mrs. Hudson had given them and used the Union Jack pillow to rest his head on, but he didn’t fall asleep--he couldn’t--because if he fell asleep he be breaking one of the rules, and if he broke one of the rules...

Hours and one empty bottle of scotch later, John heard the floorboards creak under Sherlock’s sure steps. Low and behold, he stood in front of John’s chair, eyes puffy and red, cheeks flushed and hair a mop of sweaty curls. He was still dressed, so he never bothered to go to bed. His lips pouted out and nose was scrunched. He scratched the back of his leg with his other foot’s horny toenails as he stood in front of John and waited.

“Yes?” John said, voice sounding more like a frog’s croak than his own.

“Are you still mad?” he asked.

“You’re the detective. I’m still in the chair. You figure it out.”

“But…”

“What Sherlock?”

“Rule number six--It will be week in exactly thirty minutes--You need to rub my head or feet.”

“Fuck, Sherlock. Alright, _sit,_ ” John ordered, opening his legs and pointing between them. Sherlock did as instructed and sat with his back to the chair and leaned into V of John’s crotch. “You’re a such a fucking wanker sometimes, you know that?” John touched his hair. It was so soft. He loved toying with his curls and massaging his scalp.

“You said that out loud,” Sherlock said. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes. I am,” John said, palming Sherlock’s forehead and pushing the back of Sherlock’s head along with those curly locks into John’s lap. He groaned and scrunched his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered shut.

“I really don’t think,” Sherlock moaned. “I mean, I don’t believe you...with my...him...the one who must not be named.”

“I get it, Sherlock. Thank you. Now, let me massage you completely speechless,” he said, words slurring.

Instead, Sherlock rolled over, chin inching over John’s happy-hard cock, up John’s belly, over his chest until he came eye to eye with John. He rested there, nestled between his legs--all the while, John’s fingers of his right hand stayed tangled in Sherlock’s hair. John’s eyes went from half mast to wide open.

“I need to kiss you,” Sherlock said, seriously. “It’s important that I kiss you.”

“I know the rule,” John said, drunkenly tugging Sherlock’s hair gently. “Kiss me.” 

Sherlock brushed his lips to John’s, testing him, then pulled back and rushed back in, mouth open and searching. John’s fingers scratched through Sherlock’s scalp in the same pattern Sherlock’s tongue made in his mouth.

“Scotch,” Sherlock mumbled. “I love scotch. On your lips.”

John chuckled, then hiccupped as Sherlock pulled back and canvassed John’s face with his eyes, then fingers. “Are you still angry with me?”

John sighed. “No, you great berk, I’m not angry with you anymore. But my shoulder _is_ sore. By the way--just so there’s no misunderstanding--” John said with another hiccup, “the offer Mycroft g-gave me was to set up a trust for Rosie. It was actually your parents' idea.”

“A trust? Well, in that case, you should take Mycroft up on it.”

John shook his head. “It might come with strings.” Sherlock’s eyes got big. “No! Not those kind of strings! I meant it might obli-gay...obli-gay… well, fuck, he might _make_ us take a case. Bloody hell, Sherlock. You sure do think the worst of your brother.”

“Years of experience have taught me to use extreme caution in regard to him.”

“Right. I will remember that...maybe. Damn, I am pissed. Let’s get to bed before I pass out.”

“No, you can’t pass out. I was hoping... Just how sore _is_ your shoulder?” Sherlock asked standing up and pulling John up to his feet.

“Not that sore,” he winked. “And not that pissed.”

Sherlock drew him into their room, toward their bed. He shucked off his Dolce shirt onto the chair next to the bed, next his trousers. John was so entranced, he forgot to strip down himself. Sherlock pulled a fully clothed, drunk, and crumpled John down on the bed, plop, on top of him, kneading his jean clad ass and gasping into John’s ear. He looked over John’s shoulder at the closet.

“I know what you’re still thinking about,” John said, trusting against Sherlock’s rock-hard length and wishing his Levis would magically disappear. ”And you have to stop.” John reached down and clumsily unbuttoned his flies, then shimmied out of his jeans and pants. He took Sherlock’s right hand in his, navigated it down, down, to his aching cock and had him pluck those long fingers around his thick shaft. “I have a secret,” he whispered, “I have another gun. A metaphorical gun. You’re holding it. I’ll let you shoot it.” John licked his lips. “Or you can watch me shoot it.”

Sherlock licked his lips in return. He held John’s eyes as his thumb slid across John’s glans and fingers rolled around his foreskin, making John gasp. “According to the rule, you do need to fire it,” Sherlock explained. “But I think metaphorically since you are the gun, it doesn’t matter who pulls the trigger. We won’t be breaking the rule.” With that Sherlock fingers grasped John’s cock tight and began to pump. “In fact,” he said, kissing the corner of John’s mouth, “I think _your_ gun should go off in _my_ mouth.”

“Yes,” John gasped. “Please. I want to shoot in your mouth.”

Sherlock kissed and licked a trail down his chest across his stomach until he reached the tip of John’s throbbing cock where he took John’s big, old gun into his mouth and deep down his throat. He toyed with the trigger, but didn’t pull it. Not until John begged. And begged. And begged.

The bang came to an ear shattering climax. John thought Sherlock fucking killed him at first.

“Sherlock? I’m alive, but I think you broke my gun. Can I borrow yours?”

“Be my guest. But it has a hair trigger--” Sherlock rich vocal cords sounded sexier to John after having his cock message them. “Oh, but you know _that_ already.”

 

\------------------------------

_Late morning, Saturday. Kitchen at 221B Baker Street_

Rosie had actually slept in that morning to 8 a.m. and John was grateful. His second cuppa tasted particularly good this morning. And the morning sex? Spectacular!

Earlier, Sherlock had been busy on his laptop, watching Rosie play with blocks on the floor, but now Sherlock was on his cell walking in circles in the living room around Rosie. Sherlock rarely talked on his cell. He texted. Mycroft. It had to be Mycroft. Sherlock was trying his best to talk quietly, which made John listen even closer.

“No,” Sherlock said as he strode around the room dramatically swinging one arm. People with fingers like that shouldn’t be allowed to talk with their hands--it was too distracting. “ _You’re not allowed to think John is hot…_ ” he whispered. _“No...you can’t say that again-- ever...not to me, and certainly not to him..._ ” Sherlock turned and looked at John, frowning.

“ _I will cleave your hand off if you ever touch his knee again…_ ” Sherlock said and spun around, back to John. _“No, you can’t touch his hair!_ ” Sherlock stopped his circling and held his cell out from his ear for a second, then decided that whatever abhorrent condition Mycroft had suggested needed an answer after all: “ _Yes, shooting a cab driver is ‘hotter’ than shooting an assassin...we will_ _never_ _speak of this again._ _Ever_ _. Yes. You_ _can_ _come see Rosie. But keep your_ _hands_ _to yourself. Goodbye…_ ”

After, the only sound in the room was of Rosie’s stacked blocks toppling to the floor.

“I know most of that was for my benefit,” John said finally.

“Yes, of course it was.” John noted that there was a time that Sherlock would have added _‘...any idiot would know that.’_ He also noted that this Sherlock, the one with “ _the rules_ ,” would never say such a thing to John. Not in front of Rosie. That made John smile. He really _was_ happy. It was okay to be happy. It was _good_ to be happy.

“Honestly, Sherlock, sometimes you bounce around just like Tigger.”

“ _Tigger! Tigger! Papalock is Tigger!_ ” Rosie said, jumping up, stacked blocks falling over again to the floor as she pointed to Sherlock and sang out: “ _Tigger! Tigger!”_

“Look what you’ve done, John! She’s calling me Tigger!”

“What’s wrong with that?” John asked.

“Tigger is a mindless prat!” Sherlock bottom lip pouted out.

“Not to worry. You’ll get used it.”

“I will never get used to it.”

“You didn’t like Papalock either, and look at you now,” John said, lowering his voice. “Come here, _Tigger_ , and let me pull your _trigger._ I _love_ playing with loaded guns. I’ll even let you watch.” John loved it when Sherlock blushed. “Only two hours until nap time.”

“John, not the _other_ three letter word!”

“ _No_ ! _No, nap! No, bed!_ ” Rosie shouted, bottom lip pouting out just like Sherlock’s.

“She’s getting more like her Papalock every day.” John smiled stood up and walked over to scoop up a kicking Rosie from the floor. He placed himself in front of the man he loved. The one he would never leave. And John didn’t need any silly rules keep him there, but they were good reminders.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Here's sln055's comment and idea for this work: “Oh, what I would give for a sequel where John is angry at Sherlock, so therefore is sitting up and refusing to go to bed, so he won't break the rules. And Sherlock is panicking, because John won't let him kiss him goodnight, which is yet another broken rule.... I love these idiots. Fantastic story!”
> 
> Thanks! I hope you (and other readers) enjoy this piece.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
